She began to understand his mannerisms, his expressions – his half smile that was so subtle that one might miss it if one were not paying attention. And his eyes – when they were on her, they told her of feeling.
She had never supposed Mr. Darcy capable of strong feeling; yet in this, as in so many other things, she had been mistaken. And she had been mistaken in herself as well. She, who had once laughed at those heroines who swooned at a mere glance, now found in herself something not entirely unlike it. She felt it – this strange, unaccountable longing – and, what was more, she did not wish it away. She wanted this – this strange union of affection and feeling – in her life; and withhim.
Elizabeth moved away and sat down, though she did not immediately recover her composure.
His conduct, though never ostentatious, had been quietly flattering. At times, he would say something that left her quite astonished – that a man like him… There had been no inconsistency, no lightness of purpose. He had not trifled. Whatever he felt, he had felt seriously.
He had trusted her.
That thought, more than any other, returned to her now. Not merely in his attentions, but in what he had chosen to share – what he had allowed her to see of his private concerns, of his sister, of his past. Such confidence was not lightly given.
And yet – he had said nothing. Not formally.
Elizabeth considered this more steadily.
It was not hesitation that had restrained him. Of that she was now persuaded. Nor could it be indifference. If anything, his manner had been too deliberate – too constant – for either.
No. He had waited.
For her.
The thought settled upon her with a quiet force. Was he waiting forherto speak? Surely, he knew. She coloured slightly.
She had not refused him. She had not withdrawn. She had… accepted him.
Elizabeth lowered her eyes, following the thought where it led.
He had waited because she had not been ready. There had been a time – not long past – when she would have met any declaration from him with doubt, perhaps even with a resistance she could not now justify.
A faint smile, half at herself, touched her lips.
And he had waited.
That reflection affected her deeply. Mr. Darcy had spoken of attachment, of feeling – that she made him happy. He had chosen her – Elizabeth Bennet of Hertfordshire.
It was no longer merely a question of astonishment at how greatly she had misjudged him. Rather, she found, more and more, that she wished to make him happy – that his happiness was now inseparable from her own.
She rose again, more slowly now, and with far less restlessness than before.
If he had delayed for her sake…
Was she still unready? She did not hesitate long. She was not. The certainty of it settled upon her, without agitation, and with steadiness.
Her hand lingered for a moment upon the still alive patels of her rose.
Fitzwilliam…
The name formed itself in her thoughts with a softness that surprised her.
At last, she turned toward the window. The rain had ceased, and the light, though still pale, had begun to return.
If he came today… she would not leave him in doubt.
***
The morning had scarcely settled into calm when the sound of approaching horses broke upon the quiet. It was Lydia who firstrushed to the window – though not with her usual impatience, but with a purpose she had lately discovered.
“They are come!” she cried.
